Where Pop Culture Fails
by UnbirthdayGirl
Summary: TRORY Halfway between friends and something more. Testing the waters tentivitively with their toes, swimming in the warm seas of eachothers mouths... only to run away again. Can they make it work? Stuck in the Chiltonverse
1. I Tease, Because I Care

Author: Cara

Pairing: Trory.

Disclaimer: Sue. Me. Now. 

Feedback:  Feed. Me. Now. (or perhaps read my schpiel first.)

A/N: While waiting for some divine inspiration and a pizza I ordered an hour and a half ago I gave birth to this. I should also say, that Season 2…and 3… and 4… they are dead to me… - What is this [insert any season after season 1] you speak of? (See?)

Summery: AU. Stuck perpetually in the Chilton-Verse… Rory's parents were married before she was born and are now involved in a lengthy divorce… And Rory finds solace in the most unlikely of people. TRORY

Where Pop Culture Fails

Chapter 1: I Tease, Because I Care.

All his life, up until her entrance, he was blissfully ignorant. He was it. He had the good breeding and the good graces to get him through any of life's unpleasantness. It wasn't the least unnerving to know that it was awe and not respect that he craved from people. Playing them just like they played him. It was just the way it was. 

He wasn't ready for her. That's partly why she always had the last word. Or maybe he just liked to let her win. He threw her these inane innuendoes, because she _threw_ him with her indifference. He'd walk past her in the halls and she'd look right through him. So he _made_ her notice him, he cornered her, goaded her; tried every 3rd grade tactic in the book bar hair pulling and spitballs. 

Once, he even kissed her.

It's amazing how things can change so quietly.

She slumped dejectedly against her locker and was just mustering up the energy to find her books when she felt his presence arrive beside her. 

  
"Mary, don't hit me all at once with that Monday morning enthusiasm." He began playfully, resting against the adjacent locker.

She smiled gratefully at her distraction and turned, surprising herself how quickly she closed the gap.

"What about if I just hit you?" she mumbled into shirt collar. 

"I don't know Mare, physical abuse is frown upon in most circles…" He gave a deep chuckle and leaned casually into the friendly hug, resting his chin on the top of her head, trying to be undetectable in the way he was getting off smelling her hair. 

Seconds passed before the two stepped out of the embrace, realising that it probably didn't fall under 'platonic' - well not in any dictionary she could think of. But Rory was passed analysing what he saw in her and what she got out of him - passed defining him in her life, passed ignoring that niggling feeling that she felt all the way down to her toes each time they made the slightest physical contact. 

Tristan examined her strangely, the way her head tilted to the side, as if she was on the verge of unravelling the mysteries of the universe. 

"Did you finish Macalister's paper?" he asked, and his voice broke over the stillness. 

"Did I finish?" she scoffed lightly. "I think a thousand words more and I'd have a PhD in Cuba-Missile-Crisis-ism…" she trailed off jokingly and begun to spin her locker combination. "Why?" she asked and looked curiously at him side-on. 

"Well, I was hoping you'd help me then. I think I'm a few Batistiano exiles short of a Bay of Pigs conflict."  

She laughed beautifully and he shoved his hands in the pockets of his pants; an effort to purge the impulse to pull her back into him. 

"You lay awake all last night thinking that one up didn't you?" she asked cheekily and he matched her smirk. 

"I _did_ lay awake last night. Tossing and turning. Thinking something _up._" He waggled his eyebrows up and down and watched her face with interest. 

She rolled her eyes and gestured heavenward. 

"I walked right in on that one didn't I?" She was having a hard time keeping the smile off her face. 

He didn't even miss a beat. 

"Ah, there's a fantasy I like to see fulfilled." He supplied and closed his eyes as if envisaging the picture she presented in his head.  She coloured at his antics, again rolling her eyes. It was a wonder she hadn't rendered herself cross-eyes during the course of their friendship.

She turned to face him, placing her hands firmly on her hips and looked up at him slowly. Tristan felt his breath catch in his throat.

"Tristan," she began and his name rolled off her lips like honey. "The last time we studied together, we ending up watching old episodes of MASH and you attempted to gouge my eye out with a pixie stick." 

He laughed softly at the memory, deep and throaty. "Ah, good times," he sighed dramatically and instinctively moved closer.   

"But seriously Rory, I signed up for American History not a War and Peace novel - Krushchev, Gorbochev, Chicken Kiev… its all I can do not to turn the pixie stick on myself…" he implored and further punctuated his despondency by jutting out his bottom lip. She bit down on her bottom lip; determined not to smile; to give the game away. 

He grinned and held her gaze. 

It was disconcerting, really, the intensity that lay behind his teasings, compelling her to…

 "Fine. I'll help you," she grumbled, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she could stop herself. Not that she wanted too. 

A/N: Please review. Your comments are the only thing that will make this better. And apologies, I'm Australian, so my American-ism may be awry. 

Also, I need a BETA reader. It you're interested, you can email me at cellophane_smile@hotmail.com :D


	2. The Unrequited Love Network

Disclaimer: WB saluted. I saluted back. In a purely no infringements intended manner. Got that?

A/N: Thank you muchly for the reviews and the emails, though it was eons ago.. And sorry for the delay, it was this or fail my final chemistry exam. And now, I've paved my way to a sweet C!!! hmm..

Also, I just wanted to explain the whole printery deal; we have this room at my school, which contains vast quantities of paper and one mother of a photocopier. It's not really a hive of activity. But that's what I mean with "Printery." Just thought I set that up for you.

This is kind of Tristan POV-ish in most parts, which just happened so I hope it reads ok. I think I come off quite well as a sexually obsessed boy… damn… Is that wrong?

Thank you tres much Nat for your beta help… I hope I wasn't too demanding. ;)

* * *

Chapter 2: The Unrequited Love Network

* * *

He breathes in the sight of her soft silhouette; high on her tiptoes; body pressed against the large photocopier. She is leaning over the control panel, blowing errant wispy hairs away from her eyes and swearing mildly under her breathe.

Now, Tristan is never one to let opportunity slip through his fingers. He sidles up to her, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

"Reproducing?" he quips cheekily, his eyes cast downwards at the copier. "I can help with that."

He peers at her side-on, eager to see the corners of her mouth turn up into a slow languid smile and for them to ease into the witty repartee, the meaningful glances and unnecessary touching. Because, he reasons, that kind of attention comes under the 'friends' banner right? That isn't overstepping the boundary? He can control himself when she looks at him in that certain way or actively seeks him out for comfort? He can deal with the fact that she'll never need anything more from him than friendship, can't he? … because, he thinks bitterly, he'd inevitably screw it up anyway, or screw her up or they'd… screw eachother… He unabashedly lets the images fly around inside his head; claiming her in his backseat, tasting her, feeling her slick and hot beneath him before he gulps them back down.

His comment doesn't strike the desired chord with her. Visibly on edge, she throws him her best withering stare, complete with slitted eyes and furrowed brows and doesn't dignify him with a response. He chuckles warmly because he can, revelling in this strange way they relate, the sweetness and the sarcasm… and just the way her hair falls around her face, the beautyspot behind her ear, the way her index finger is jabbing erratically at the buttons on the control panel. The machine beeps twice in response to this treatment and the sound of whirring ventilation fans suddenly stopped dead.

She expels a large growl of frustration and turn to face him –scowling, positively livid, oh what he wouldn't do to help her blow off some of that steam…

"Tristan, allow me to introduce to you the photocopier equivalent of Paris Gellar." She announces through gritted teeth.

"Pleased to meet you..." He extends his hand and feigns a handshake in the air.

Dork. The makings of a smile twitch promisingly at her lips. To mask this, she quickly turns her attentions back to the disagreeable photocopier.

"I haven't forgotten I promised to help you with history." she adds, staring distracted at the machine in front of her.

"But today Paris seemed to be channelling Carrie White and cast me in some Chris Hargensome type role because I dumped the proverbial pig blood on her at the prom by asking how her weekend was… and unless I want to be fodder for her supernatural rage I can't leave until these are finished…" she gestured wildly at the mounting pile of student newspapers.

He chuckles at her rambling, "I know that I've been hanging out with you too long when I can follow your pop culture references….How 'bout I wait for you?" He places his hand lightly on her shoulder in concern and to some extent guilt from the part he played in Rory and Paris' falling out. __

She looks slowly up at him and then her gaze leveled at his hand before her eyes glaze over in panic. She fumbles to pick up the large stack of papers on the ground and in her haste, the sharp edge of paper nicks a thin sliver of skin. She yelps softly and wrings the offending finger in the air.

He watches her with thinly veiled concern.

"Suck on it." he instructs simply, softly almost and he reaches over to relieve her of the papers.

She complies, this is Tristan she can deal with and she smiles slyly over her stinging finger, "That's your answer to _everything,_" she admonishes teasingly before popping the offending finger into her mouth, her eyes twinkling.

It is then that he sees himself cupping her face fervently in his hands, running them down her hot cheeks, her shoulder blades, down her back, underneath her thighs, effortlessly lifting her warm body onto the photocopier, bringing her legs tight around him, the material of her Chilton skirt gathering around her middle… feeling her shiver with the mélange of the cold plastic top of the machine pushing hard against her back and the fusion of their lips, the twist of limbs, and the delicious pressure of their torsos…. he sees himself assaulting her neck with burning open mouth kisses, making her writhe, wiggle beneath him, hearing frantic puffs of air emitting his name…. "Tristan"… over and over… "Tristan…"

"Tristan!? Are you in there? ET phone home later, I need you to work your magic on the photocopier."

"What?" he asks hazily and shakes himself out of his reverie. God, he is one horny son of a bitch.

"The photocopier. You need to fix it." Her tone is curt but curious.

Still trying to shake his daydream, he stares at her and she misreads his look and takes it as a sign of incredulity.

"Hey!" she says waggling her index finger at him, her low tone implying she is poking fun at him. "I'm an old-fashioned girl. I was raised on the belief that it's the men who fix the photocopiers and the women who have the babies."

"And here was I thinking, you were raised on the belief that John Hughes is God and that a staple diet consists solely of cuisine from the pop-up food group."

She laughs lightly. "It's like you know me…" she muses.

The mood is somehow different suddenly, as if someone has dimmed the lights and the sudden change brings her laughter to an abrupt halt. He's looking at her, steadfast and earnest.

"I do know you. At least I like to think I do." He answers.

"You know me.." she says running the words together nervously… and the silence that follows is excruciating. She wracks her brain, trying to find anything to dispel the tension.

"Did you say cuisine?" She laughs uneasily, "No more Iron Chef for you mister." __

He shakes his head and smiles sadly, resigned to her reaction. Stooping low to pull out the bottom tray of the machine, the material of his grey school slacks strain against his perfect tight arse and the sleeves of his shirt, rolled up to his elbows, show her a tanned expanse of well toned arms, leading to big strong hands with neat fingernails. He grunts softly at the task and she unconsciously smiles at the sound, deep and sexy. He pulls out a crinkled piece of paper and a few buttons are pressed before the printer whirs into action again.

"Thanks" she gushes genuinely. He stands up slowly, gracefully and for the second time that day they are surprised at their closeness. A heat runs between them; the air literally crackling with it. It seems to burn up the surrounding oxygen and it becomes increasing hard to… deep even breaths, she repeats; her mantra.

"I aim to please," he says close to her ear, his voice velvety soft. She becomes acutely aware of the affect he is having on her; her spine and lips tingling with anticipation.

"You've got really good aim then" she smile up at him but stops short when she met the depths of a blue; soulful and shining with something she doesn't want to see… but his touch is so agonizingly gentle that she lets him… Ever so slightly, he leans in. He seeks out her small hand, ever so lightly sweeping his thumb over the palm, ever so soft as he grasps her arm and turns her into him and the blue, so blue, like she is underwater… and the world seems to slow, frame by frame….

All at once, he turns away, abruptly breaking the moment. She coughs uncomfortably, a mixture of frustration and embarrassment etched on her features. His eyes franticly scan the room; the bright florescent light blinks above- he blinks with it and fails miserably at seeming unaffected. She winces. Disaster has once again been averted.

Yet instead of feeling the warm rush of relief, her panic is replaced with something else. What is that, she wonders at the unfamiliar tug in her chest; guilt, hurt and strangest of all, rejection?

Tristan had always been so entirely readable and in the beginning, almost sadistically dependable. It was nice in a way, to have that in a place like Chilton. It was even better, she remembers, when 'that' had erupted into friendship.

And now….

"Outside Mrs O'Rielly's office right?" he asks all-to-cheerfully and gestures to the pile of newspapers on the floor and the sound is loud, foreign. They look down at their shoes; they both hear it. He is grasping for something, the ease that existed between them 3 minutes ago.

"Yeah. I'll meet you at the car." The colour of her voice seems overly bright and she wrings her hands at the awkward feeling running between them.

* * *

The discomfit melts away, like the countless times before and by the time the sports car slides into the driveway they're bickering intermittently over control of the radio dial and which Spice Girl George Bush would be. (Baby Spice)

They fly up the staircase and he swings open his bedroom door ceremoniously. She stands bemused at the threshold, partly at his antics and partly at the sight before her; the unmade bed, cluttered desk and the clothes strewn all over the place – one shirt hangs haphazardly on a bedside lamp.

"Fire the maid," she deadpans.

"Feng Shui Mary. Fung Shui." He counters confidently, a teasing lilt to his voice..

"Mr Fung Shui is officially turning over in his grave." She retorts.

"Mr Fung Shui?" he teases back good-naturedly.

She throws her arms up in the air in exasperation and her book bag on the floor. Something, a maternal something, or perhaps her penchant for cleanliness, sees her striding purposely over to the bed, and attempting to straighten the bedclothes. He looks on amused, and touched at the same time, before he flops down onto the bed, halting her attempt to bring some semblance of order to the room.

"Hey, you made my bed and now you have to lie in it…" he smirks up at her, lazily and laced with suggestion before he pats the space next to him.

She snorts derisively but plonked down in spite of herself, adjusting her legs around her to sit Indian style next to him. He shoots her a tentative look from his position; a typical Tristan sprawl with his hands tucked behind his head.

"Are we going to go to Sean Lafferty's party on Saturday night?" he asks flippantly, inspecting his fingernails. Or pretending to inspect his fingernails, whatever.

"We?" She smiles down at him, that quietly smug smile, a poker smile, where she knows she has the upper hand but can't bluff to save herself.

His heart beats a little bit faster and he shakes his head softly. She loosely plucks at the buttons on his shirt, and he is almost certain she is flirting with him something scandalous.

"You know, we in the general sense of the word- Are you going, am I going, should we carpool, it just seemed the more economical style of phrasing."

She raises one perfect eyebrow and he feels 13 all over again.

"Actually, Summer has already offered to drive me…" she says loftily.

He stares at her baffled, his eyebrows raised in interest.

"What?" she retorts somewhat maddened off his look, "I told you I wanted to make friends here! So, I'm branching out; expanding my horizons."

Her voice drops and she dips her head mere itches above his ear. "I mean, I can't hang around with you all the time. I'll start to descend into jock-boy speak," Her voice takes on a deep comical quality. "– hey man, kick ass, killer dude… I may even begin to start slapping guys on the butt after successful bouts of physical exertion…" she trials off and seeing the double meaning in her words, looks at him expectantly, almost wearily.

"By all means." he says smoothly, smirking something crazy and turning his back to aim his arse up at her.

"You're such a dickhead." she says laughing and slaps him playfully on the ass.

"Jeez, enough with constant allusions to my private anatomy Rory. I feel so violated" he says with mock-offence. Her touch is almost unbearable. He narrowly controls the urge to flip her over onto the bed and kiss her till she can't see straight.

Instead, he waits for her move. Predictably, she rolls her eyes and they sit in an unusual silence.

"Why Summer?" he asks after a moment of hesitation. "She's about as friendly as those girls in the Heathers, except there was three of them and there's only one of her so the bitchiness is more concentrated." He laughs tightly in a rare moment of awkward rambling and something beneath the surface of his curiosity suggests that the humour is lost on him.

"The Heathers?" she questions laughingly and looks at him oddly.

"Hey! I have a sister! And Winona Ryder's hot!" he defends innocently.

Wholly unconvinced she continues, "If you're so turned on by kleptos, do you mind if I copy you're notes from biology? I tuned out."

He tuts with mock-disapproval and then eternity seems to pass as he searches through his bag for his notebook.

"Anyway. Summer's sort of fun," Rory offers lamely.

"You want to talk fun?" He sits up slightly and gives her his patented leer. "I am the master of fun… among other things…" God, desperate much? He mentally berates himself.

She laughs and as she leans over the bed to dig around in her bag for her history textbook, her skirt hitches slightly, exposing a small expanse of creamy thigh. He quickly looks away but she's on instant replay in his mind, burned in his memory, imprinted on the backs of his eyelids.

* * *

Don't own: The movies Carrie and The Heathers, John Hughes, Winona and… a clue… because I should be doing homework…

Next Chapter: there looks to be action, because I can't stand unresolved sexual tension. And is there not enough sexual tension between those two to fill the _entire_ continent of Australia _and_ outlying islands!!?? ;) Although, this chapter wasn't exactly Sex-Lite, with Tristan and his daydreams of illicit smoochies on the photocopier, the car.. and the bed…( you naughty boy!!) do tell me if you think I should change the rating?

Review! I need it almost as much as Gilmore Girl's needs the return of Tristan to hall its arse out of lame-adultery-plotline-ville.


	3. A Little Less Conversation

A/N: Thanks for the reviews. Thanks to the lovely Nat for the BETA.

Oh and Kristy Anne Halliwell: Actually, I live in Australia, where we're just over winter and the whole school/homework thing is kind of a necessity.

This was written for Gilmore Girls Improv, using the words:

revive velvet verve revolve vivid

* * *

Chapter 3: A Little Less Conversation

* * *

You can't blame him for wanting more – another taste, another piano bench. The way he follows her with blinding faith, as if she embodies his salvation; his saving grace, when in actuality, she is the one coming undone; watching her parent's relationship fall apart. That school doesn't help matters, attending with those gargoyles that stalk the halls Monday to Friday just as they perch on top of the buildings. People like that submerge themselves with a dead weight, an emptiness, to evade hurt or rejection; dragging them so far under in an attempt to silence the war inside.

Tonight, the pulse of the mansion throbs loudly with their efforts; obnoxious rhythms and writhing bodies. He melts into the crowd and out onto the terrace where he sets eyes on her; poolside, on the sun lounge next to Summer and Paul something-or-other. The watery glow from the pool light against the back wall paints her ethereal blue and he vaguely wonders how it would feel, splitting apart her velvet folds, breaking her in, pressing himself between her pages.

She balances a bottle of one of those syrupy girly drinks precariously on one knee and after spotting him, saunters over.

"There you are," she practically purrs, smiling widely. She envelops him, pressing flush against him. It isn't so much her words but her breath, warm against his cheek, and the soft weight of her breasts resting against his chest that instantaneously kick his senses into overdrive.

"You were right about Summer." she muses as she pulls away.

"Yeah." he says, trying to hide the big fat 'I-told-you-so-face' he is sporting.

"Did you hear about Madeleine locking herself in the bathroom?" she asks cringing, trying to swallow her smile.

"No. I saw the line though." he smirks cruelly and looks away, back to the sun lounge where Summer, wasting no time, is sinking her claws into Paul No name. "–What poorly scripted line from _Mean Girls_ did the ice maiden draw on this time?" he inquires and smiles derisively at the all-to-familiar situation.

"Now I can't be sure. But I think it was..." her voice momentarily slips up an octave, tinged with a valley-girl air, "If you give him head, he can't see your cellulite, that offended her enough to send her toilet-bound."

"And which part was it that offended her exactly? The allusion to her cellulite or future as a sex worker?"

She pretends to ponder the question with deliberation and they share an amused look, "Beats me. It's a girl-eat-girl world."

"Actually, according to Summer, its a girl-eat-boy world..." he smirks and chuckles dryly. He takes a long swig from his bottle of Corona as she scoffs appropriately.

"Pig," it rolls effortlessly off the tongue.

He shrugs away the insult easily. He is in his element with her, the banter; he feeds off it. He twists open another bottle, wordlessly handing it to her. The gesture comes naturally and artlessly, free of any ulterior motive and after accepting his offering she takes a hesitant sip.

* * *

Brett Fontaine doesn't like to play second fiddle to anybody, least of the doe-eyed virgin from Hicks-Ville Town America.

So upon the realisation that Tristan's attentions seem rather preoccupied, following the movements of blue eyes from English Lit rather than his story of a hot tub foursome, he decides to reclaim the spotlight.

"Is our boy Dugrey hankering for a yankering?" he gestures crudely and winks at the blonde.

Tristan suddenly feels the innate desire to roll his eyes... or knock Brett's lights out. Either/Or.

"Brett, I really like you," Tristan quips and pulls his gaze away, filling the Rory shaped hole with visions of the party around him before turning back to the group. "But, you and me, strictly friends."

Inwardly Brett scowls at the golden boy. God, how he wants to bring him down to earth, to stand on the ground with the other mere mortals whose lives don't resemble one continuous episode of Leave It To Beaver.

"Don't hide behind a fucking comedy routine Dugrey. It is what is it is- You're a fucking lapdog." he singsongs and laughs dangerously, "Tonight is a fucking free for all, land of the easy lay and you're letting Gilmore string you around by your blue balls," he jeers.

The remark seems to hit a little too close to home.

"Fuck off. It's just a matter of time." he seethes, his pride on the line.

"Just a matter of time before you what... -do her homework for her, start braiding her hair, hang out with her Mum?"

Tristan doesn't understand what makes him walk away.

Maybe because the guy had a point.

* * *

The kitchen is practically empty when she approaches the lone figure. He is leaning casually against the breakfast island, hovering over the cluttered Formica, a quiet smile playing at his lips. However, it's his eyes that betray him. Clear and blue but void like cold stars in an empty sky.

The space is littered with half-empty liquor bottles, the tiny diamond cut of their glass creating shards of translucence on the countertop and he pours another of the nameless amber liquid into a shot glass.

"Way to give yourself alcohol poisoning," she deadpans from behind and the frosted glass pauses momentarily against his lips. He takes in her expression, somewhere between disapproval and amusement, as he as he throws back the shot, swallowing the sharp liquid with a grimace.

"Dutch courage." he supplies and swipes a hand across his mouth.

"What?" she questions bewildered but she hears him the first time. He watches her lips curl around the word, the shapes she makes with her lips when she talks.

"Nothing... You're doing that really sexy thing with your mouth again." he adds contemplatively as an inebriated afterthought.

"What? Speaking?" She leans down slightly to adjust the strap of her heels and unintentionally offers him a low shot down the front of her shirt.

"Yeah," he says lamely. "Listen, I gotta tell you something"

She sees it again, just like the many times before, that intensity in his gaze, directed squarely at her, barely restrained, simmering just beneath the surface. But tonight, she doesn't balk and hide behind an expertly timed insult. Truthfully, she doesn't seem to be able to string one together at that moment, preoccupied by how good he looks, the way his shirt hangs perfectly on his form, piquing her interest and imagination.

She takes another long sip from her second glass of punch as a vision fades into view; Tristan bringing his mouth to her's in a punch-flavoured kiss, a trickle of the drink is dripping down her chin, and it rolls over his finger as he cups her face, she laughs as their lips press together, playing against the slow song of eachothers mouths, swallowing and kissing.

His gazed is still on hers when she lifts her face to look at him.

"Sounds serious..." she teases, her voice rising to a playful lilt and her eyes cloudy with something.

His thoughts- It seems important to get them out but they swirl around him, reason drifting in and out like the tides, a stormy blur of thoughts, thoughts of her, images of hot flesh flashing against the back of his eyeballs, crashing against the walls of his brain.

He wants to lay her right there on the table... No that's not right... Lay it out right there on the table. Right there... Its been weighing on his chest... and he'd rather be weighing on her chest. No that wasn't quite it either.

"Me and you..." he starts abruptly, spurred on by her smiles and the easiness between them. He starts over. "You and me..."

"_Goodnight, Starlight_ by _The Juliana Theory_. Right?" She cuts short the beginnings of his confession, delivering the oversight without missing a beat

"Yeah. Good one..." His voice is suspiciously vacant.

"God, I can't believe your waxing emo..." She laughs and briefly lays a hand gently on his chest

"...Did you see the beer pyramid?" He asks hurriedly, rotating his body so that he is leaning back against the marble counter top next to her.

"I did." she sounds coy and indifferent. It's aggravating and he tries again.

"You're looking at the architect. Taking one for the family business." he boasts asininely and tries to hold her eye contact. She slides her vision to the various bottles littering the countertop. Assessing the amount of drink left in the bottles by weighing them in her hands.

"Is the construction of beer pyramids in big demand at Daddy's Architectural Firm?" she asks tongue-in-cheek like.

He ignores her attempt to steer the conversation.

"Hey. You wanna take a walk?" he asks from nowhere and the comment is reminiscent of another such conversation, only this time, the accompanying look is almost vulnerable. It is still unbelievably self-assured, yes, but its as if underneath his bravado he is really holding his breath. The alcohol walks his hand dangerously low on her back and he smiles at her, a fully-fledged smirk, though his eyes speak of his longing.

"I'm just about to go home," she looks at him out of the corner of her eye to see his reaction. It has become increasingly difficult to remember why she fought against this. He traces slow lazy circles on her spine and she feels somersaults low in her abdomen.

"I could give you a ride," he whispers coarse and seductive, a bold move, inspired in large part to the alcohol swimming in his veins and said-veins moving the blood southward, to areas that leave him light-headed. He moves to stand behind her, grasping the counter top either side of her, tightly encircling her, effectively trapping her in.

Involuntarily melding into him, she manages a weak protest, "I don't think you should be driving. You're not exactly the poster boy for sobriety at the moment. "

He chuckles and plays with her hair, then moves the strands off her back, over her shoulder, exposing her neck. He touches it delicately, tracing invisible lines with the bulb of his thumb and her world seems to spins faster on its axis.

"Maybe I wasn't talking about my car.... unless we're talking about the backseat." he leers and it seems he's too far-gone to turn back now.

The point of no return, there it is, way back, off in the distance, that far away horizon.

"Tristan..." she trials off absently. Her voice echoes around her and she feels removed from herself, pleasantly numb and hardly able to suppress the distant girlish laugh that escapes her lips.

His inhibitions dry up before evaporating completely. "Or you should give me a ride. How are you at driving stick?" he grins and leans into her.

Her response is immediate, pushing back against him languorously. She feels top-heavy, uneven and arranges her head under his chin, laying it on his chest.

He laughs softly against the shell of her ear and together with the feel of his arms around her, she suspects the scene looks strangely intimate, _is _strangely intimate.

Over her clouded thoughts, it begins to register... 'this is a mistake', just a tiny voice in the back of her head, but then it says it louder, again, and then again louder still. It's damn near impossible to do but reluctantly she untangles herself out of the hold.

In an instant, the ground seems to tilt against her and it takes every being in her body to keep from toppling over. His hand flies to her waist in an attempt to steady her and the other lightly grasps her wrist. Instinctively, his reflexes draw her back into him again, clumsily brushing his mouth the length of the aforementioned ear – which is all the encouragement she needs.

Her ears fill with static and white noise as she seizes him by the collar. He meets her halfway, capturing her lips in one fluid movement, descending upon her mouth frantically, hungrily. She kisses him back thoroughly, her lips everywhere at once, covering every itch of his mouth with her own. There is no room for a second thought... or thought at all. It is only sensation, the heady pheromone that is his lips against her lips, the taste of her perfume, the exchange of heat, radiating from his torso through the light fabric of the cotton polo shirt he wears. The slow spread of that warmth seems to reach her toes.

She feels him smile against her coaxing lips as they work together, lifting her onto the smooth granite of the counter top. Her expression is a perfect picture, a watercolour, soft and pale and placid.

She splays her legs open, before wrapping them round his waist, latching on for dear life. She eases herself off the smooth counter, into his hold, his hands running the contours of her back, travelling through her hair, mapping her. Lips sucking at the hollow of her neck, marking her.

The crushing force of hipbones makes her burst open, bloom with colour and desire. Her lips are slightly parted and she stares past him through her lashes. She pants faintly under her breath and the effect is infinitely removed from the waif-like pastel; she is wild and fiery.

He carries her aimless around the room, eyes clamped shut, kaleidoscopic patterns forming behind them. She distantly feels the impact as they knock against the large refrigerator, kicking off the cold stainless steel with a foot. They move up against the oven and she is numb to the fact that the handle is digging painfully into her back.

They skim the kitchen wall and finally she reaches over him with her free hand, the other busy running through his hair as she blindly jiggles open the door of the pantry.

She laughs giddily against his shoulder as they enter. The dull bass of the music is muffled somewhat as he pulls the door partially shut, distracted as he is once more taken in by the hot caress of her wet mouth.

The cramped space is immersed in blackness and she is dimly aware of her location, the heavy feeling of use by dates and the floating scent of spices and preserves. The jar and containers chink and rattle together in chorus as he slams her up against the pantry door, clicking it closed... along with the world outside. Because in here, they are miles away, dying at each other lips.

She serenades him, grinding on him in a deadly rhythm, singing sweet nothings through swollen lips against his mouth, playing havoc on his desire with her fingertips. He responds unconditionally, giving himself over to her fully, every lungful of air, every tremor of muscle.

His passion washes over her in waves and she clings on for dear life, swept away by sensation, bracing her back against the inside of the pantry door.

The collision of tongues and teeth and the faintly fruity taste of her lip balm fuel his desire as he smashes into her lips feverishly, over and over.

"You feel so good" he says dizzily, running his hands under her skirt, up and down the downy skin of her thighs, again and again, learning every curve off by heart.

Her reply is a string of incoherent 'Gods...' 'Tristan's...' and 'ohh's' and she kisses him back with equal verve.

He doesn't care that they are ruining everything, lighting fires they can't put out. In his drunken haze, he is swimming in her, the warm and salty sea of her mouth. He runs his tongue along the roof of the opening causing her to only push against him harder, their bodies pressed together with such ferocity that its painful.

She kisses him all over, 'God' she calls into his lips again and then lolls her head back against the wooden panel of the door, two slow revolutions, as he worships her neck. He travels up, feather light, touching the underside of her breast tenderly, reverently and then he pulls back, whispering in her ear, his voice rough with emotion,

"You're everything I've ever wanted,"

The words are vivid and powerful in their simplicity and he cups her face, the movement abrasive, fierce, yet with aching vulnerability.

Even in the darkness their eyes lock and she panics, halfway between temptation.

Centuries go by, finally it is her fear that wins out over the pleasure and she stumbles away. She is overcome with the implications of his declaration and the slow sinking feeling of her bold actions.

Senseless and mute, she places two fingers against her lips, which even an hour later still hum with him, that electricity.

It's only a week later, after she puts continents between them; last to arrive to the classes they share, first to leave, playing that intricate dance of avoidance, the steps she knows so well; almost off by heart... breaking her heart, that she overhears scraps of conversation, in low tones, her grandma on the phone one day after school.

"Awfully sad...A stroke... Paramedics tried to revive him... Always seemed so full of life... Yes, Rory is friends with his grandson... Tristan, Poor thing. It was said they were close...."

* * *

I think some people were a little confused with the ending. I didn't kill off Tristan or leave him in a coma. Just Grandpappy!Dugrey. Ok? Don't give _yourself _a stroke. ;)

Next, is a definite R, so.... change your default rating settings if you want to find out what happens.


	4. A Spectacular Fall From Grace

A/N: Thanks for the nice reviews and the not-so-nice. I'll take it all baby! Sorry to those who were confused to the ending of the last chapter. Tristan didn't die. Grandpappy Dugrey died. AND they didn't sleep together in the pantry. I myself, cannot fathom vertical sex in a pantry so last chapter heavy kissage only.

Sorry for the wait. But in between chapters I finished highschool and started my uni degree, lived, breathed, loved etc… I lost my way with this fic for a while, I wasn't ready to write this chapter… but it was the only way I could see to direct the plot. Thanks especially to those who reviewed in the last couple of months, it induced guilt and got me off my arse.

Thanks eternal to the wonderful Elaida, my beta, who should be rightly credited for a lot of the dialogue in this chapter. She wastes too much of her time and talent helping me out of scrapes and repositioning my commas. Thank you, dear friend.

Thanks also to Kat86 for the lovely PM yesterday. Screw exams. This chapter is dedicated to you.

PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS STORY IS NOT LONGER CLASSIFIED UNDER A T RATING AND THIS CHAPTER IS RATED M FOR SEXUAL SITUATIONS. IF THAT OFFENDS, PLEASE DON'T READ ON. 

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Chapter 4: A Spectacular Fall From Grace

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The sun blazes through the tree overhead. It litters the balcony tiles with floating sun-filtered forms and casts a dappled light over his detached figure. 

He is a pale shadow of his usual self. Inertia has taken him over; unfurled his fists, unclenched his jaw. There is nothing of his familiar fire, he looks small and lost, only sad eyes lay testament to the years he has aged since he received the news of his grandfather's death on Wednesday.

The cushioned chaise lounge is reclined completely but he is sitting up, poised rigidly on the edge of the stained timber frame. Face upturned, eyes narrowed in the glare, he stares unblinkingly up into the canopy. He isn't crying, only folded in with anger and self-pity. He won't give himself over to the luxury of tears.

She watches him as he rips himself away from his thoughts and closes his eyes heavily, the black material of his blazer creasing into uneven folds at his elbows as he lays his head in his hands.

His performance plays through the glass door like a black and white movie, flicking through each feeling like photographic stills.

The glass panes reflect her own agitation; her eyes burn with the picture of his private grief and her small hand rests unsurely on the handle.

She wants to walk him out of hell, holding his hand. This inherent need to be always saving someone, to save him, wins over her reluctance.

The track of the sliding door leading from his bedroom to the balcony squeaks as she pushes it back. He listens to the soft click of her heels across the tile and looks up at her approaching form – startled, displeased, irritated --all these things. And as she moves to stand above him in the modest black dress she wears, her face is the very picture of concern.

She glances at his stately profile; the handsome features, disheveled hair and the sad eyes, a cerulean blue that makes her think of his namesake.

"It was a beautiful ceremony," she murmurs inadequately. The words ring out inert and disconnected into the abyss of their surroundings; the muffled sounds of the wake downstairs, the far-off clink of glasses and low indistinct voices floating up from French doors below.

His eyes study the mosaic of the balcony tiles but the funeral plays out behind themHis mother, her stifled sobs, heaving against his father's chest but all the while inwardly calculating their portion of the inheritance; her newly acquired Boston Townhouse-- about removing the living room interior wall, to open up the space.

They were a lot alike really, he muses bitterly, his mother and Rory. Their cries, be it feigned pleasure or projected grief, both hitting false notes.

And when he thinks back to the way Rory had kissed him into oblivion at that party, pleading incoherencies before she pushed him away… her dirty words and tacit promises of something more still suspended in the stale air of the pantry, he gives over to anger, cold and hard.

"I never knew you'd met my grandfather," he says sharply, indignantly, and sits up a little bit straighter.

She balks visibly at the cut of his words; the sting of the implicit 'you shouldn't be here' and 'I don't want you here.'

He is thinking of the last time he saw his grandfather. He'd gone to his office after school and talked to him for hours. The old man had asked about the girl he'd mentioned last time. He'd remembered that passing reference; something about a project for government class and her clown doughnuts… and he'd asked about her.

"_She won't have you? Doesn't she know who you are?"_

"_I think that's the problem."_

"_She really is a keeper then."_

_If only she could be kept._

Tristan had forgotten he'd even told him. The thought should make him smile and miss and talk in his head. Instead, he levels cold eyes at her and she takes in the square set of his jaw.

She pulls nervously at her dress. The hem skims well past her knees but she tugs at it anyway.

She falters. "I came with my Grandparents. I tried to find you downstairs, I-I- wanted to say how sorry…"

"--Spare me the sympathy act," he seethes.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Her voice catches and that quiet smile on her face cracks.

"Come on, Rory. What are you doing here?"

"I… I came for you," she implores and he can't help but think that she's trying to convince herself just as much as she's trying to convince him.

"Why, you looking to pick up where we left off? Sorry, but the pantry isn't going to be too private right now. With the catering staff going in and out. But maybe that's what was missing last time. An audience for your little performance."

He laughs cruelly and her eyes prickle with tears.

"Well, I thought you might need me to? Want me to-"

"_You thought wrong." _

She flinches.

He hated her. Yes, he did. He hated her. He loved her too, but it was a hard hating kind of love.

"I'm sorry. I'll go then," she manages with surprising vacuity, turning on her heels, staggering to the glass door. She wrenches at the handle to drag the door open and makes it halfway across the plush carpet of his room.

Something rips through him and suddenly he is standing behind her. His hands, both urgent and hesitant at once, reach for her, spinning her round to possess her. His lips brutally find her own and the kiss is frenzied, warping time. Morphing, shaping, changing everything she knows. She feels tiny hairs she didn't know existed, prickling in their follicles and her lungs ache with stale air. She knows she should want to resist; to pull away or to purse her lips against his delicious onslaught but she can't.

She is filled with this hard aching need, for him, for how the world could be, for how they could be, but aren't. So, she plays pretend. It's so easy, playing pretend, when there are red leaves and bird songs and such pliant lips. Button by button, peeling back his blazer, his dress shirt. There's always more to strip away.

Layer after layer, shimmying out of that modest black dress, modesty shot to hell. It was so wrong, but wrong in all the right ways.

She feels herself descending slowly, a spectacular fall from grace, down, down, down.

She sets him on fire as she kisses him hard on the mouth. Collapsing onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, she hovers above him, floating face down. Her long hair is a curtain, sweeping across his face, as she takes him inside of her with hesitant hands.

He moves over her, settling into the ache between her thighs. She dissolves under his touch, his callus hands tracing the contours of her person, the rises and falls, cupping softly at her breasts.

They don't speak. Not like last time. Words are wasted breath. Silence is more profound. And he wants to make it burn so hot that she will feel exactly what he feels. He doesn't need words. All that is really said between them is the low guttural sound he makes when she touches him there. And that sharp intake of breath she makes at the sudden stab of pain deep inside her, as he slides in deeper. He adjusts his positioning and touches her softly, in silent reassurance. She bites down on the pain and grabs fistfuls of his hair, pulling him closer with a feverish kiss. He can feel his blood moving, so much heated blood, and fingernails raking across his back. He breaths unevenly in her ear and his fingertips dig into the skin at her hip.

She seems luminous in the descending daylight, like she's radioactive as he pounds into her, long strokes that leave her wanting. Her body yields to the cadence he sets and under the cotton of the sheets he makes her glow in the dark. Her breathing starts to fall in short rasps and she stares up at the ceiling. Hot silk is stretched tight around him and she arches her back feeling something surging inside of her, a kind of thrumming and she's stretched so thin that she's going to break, teetering on the brink, suspended between awkwardness and euphoria.

Stars collapse and time goes slow as he pours into her, taking in her mouth and submerging her silky moan as she peaks. Her legs buckle and she feels an exquisite sensation seize her. Velvet muscles of soft walls contract around him, he feels her fall apart in his hands and he knows he won't want to find the pieces to put her back together again.

The pleasure fans out, sweeping over her in a flood, ebb and flow, ebb and flow and she wished she had written the English language so she could say exactly how she feels, to paint this exquisiteness with words… she feels like her bones are melting into the mattress, she feels as if she's spinning off the edge of the earth and everything weighs less than nothing. She squeezes her eyes shut and makes herself believe that he doesn't hate her… and that she doesn't hate herself.

The darkness steals over the sky and he takes her in amidst the tangle of bed sheets; the dampness of her hair from the exertion… the tiny kissable dent of her bottom lip, the way her feet tuck around his, and her slow steady breathing as she sleeps. He draws a soft line on her cheek with the bulb of his thumb and she unconsciously moves deeper into the folds of his arms. The longer he watches her, the more the pleasant numbness fades away, and suddenly all he is left with is the clammy heat of her body pressed up against him and then the embittered realization that history is repeating. She'll run. She'll hear the call and she'll run. He feels world-weary and squeezes his eyes shut, finding surface comfort in the embrace, her head resting on his heart and her hands in his hair.

When he wakes an hour or so later, she is sitting up, pulling on her black heels and fixing the strap tightly around her foot. He recovers his clothes, lying crumpled on the plush carpet next to the bed. In those few minutes, they skillfully avoid eye contact, busying themselves with buttons and zips and buckles and invisible lint. He tugs on his dress shirt and she attempts to smooth the wrinkles out of the once modest black dress. She gets to her feet, limping ever so slightly as she crosses the room. She stops at the doorframe, but doesn't turn around. Her fingers wrap around the handle and she is unable to hold in her shaky breath.

But her wordless sigh carries with it all the weight of the unsaid things.

And, as the door clicks closed, he feels her move further and further away.

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AN: So much for holding his hand Rory… Geez… ;) 

So, comfort sex isn't the solution it promises to be… the road to "something more" for our young lovers is full of potholes and sticky tar and rocks and glass and other pointy road-dwelling things that puncture the proverbial tire in the journey to reconciliation along the highway love. However, to get them there faster, you must review. If we were to continue the stupid road/car analogy, reviews are like petrol/gas… they 'fuel' my muse… they start the ignition of the next chapter… Yes. I win the award for the most horrible analogy EVER.

Next chapter: The 'cycle' continues but the next location is more than a little unexpected and unconventional. Please place your bets in your reviews and if you get right, you will get…

…Bragging rights and the acknowledgment that you possess some kind of psychic ability.


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